A Daily Dose of Immunity
There’s a nip in the air now and I welcome that slight dip in the temperature. When I wake at 4 am and sit by the window looking out into the inky blackness, the trees in the small park behind my house stand together, whispering secrets to each other. In the row of cottages that stand between my window and the Park, the largest feline, a disreputable-looking one with a torn ear and murder in its eyes has woken up, in the warm recess in someone’s house that she has slept in. She is on the prowl, eyes glowing and luminescent. For a moment, as she lithely up climbs the rafters and the roof, she senses me watching, and turns her head with slow majesty. The light of the moon drops into the depths of her eyes causing them to glow liquid green fire. Then she turns away, and I can almost hear her say to herself, “Another cat. A strange one. But harmless.” And she pads on.
The littlest breeze ruffles the leaves of my potted rose outside the window, and they wave happily at me.
Later in the day, as we go for our sunrise walk, the sun is wreathed in luminous clouds and sunbeams slant through them, enveloping the earth and the treetops in sublime beatitude. Birds wake up later, and butterflies. Dew covers each blade of grass, and the top of our car, as we drive to the Park, is dew-dotted. After we enter the gates, and we are walking among the trees, I can smell the smells. Dew-wet earth. Champa and Madhumalti flowers. Growing roots. Dry leaves. Withered leaves. The rich smell of the tidal creek in low tide. A used condom. Curry leaf. Eucalyptus. The mud apple, ripening in the winter sun.
Sometimes I get so caught up in the scents that my steps falter. The man who lives with me looks back when he can’t feel my presence beside him and frowns with exasperation, and then, resignation, shakes his head and walks on. Once, he laboured under the mistaken notion, that the frown would make me hurry to keep pace. But now he has rid himself of all those delusional notions. He knows I might probably dawdle longer, or even sit down somewhere, as his frown intensifies. We used to have these battles of will frequently, before he realised that if I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t budge, come hell or high water. We had gone to buy sarees once and he is very fond of white, beige, off white colours. I am, too, but I am not fond of influencers. So I bought myself a violently purple and green saree. I don’t think I ever wore it. But a woman has to stand up for her rights, you know. After that, he kept his opinions to himself.
So we meander, or pace, through the Park, I , staring at the ground, the sky, the leaves, the flowers, touching the boles of trees as I pass. I can feel the music of the earth as my fingers touch the living tree: from the depths of the earth, and the roots of the plants, an ancient music informs my body and chimes through my soul. Sunbeams touch my upturned face, and there is a palpable blessing in it, which grazes my eyes, and fills my heart and soul.
And that, is my daily dose of immunity.
©️ 2021 Suma Narayan. All Rights Reserved.
Shoutout to Bronwen Scott for her intriguing description of the interdependence of the Misletoebird, and the Mistletoe plant:
